From Detest to Devotion
by juno57
Summary: Sort of AU, Maria and her parents are living in Acre; her father is a Templar who is returning home after having been injured in battle. While fighting, he was able to capture an Assassin, and decided that instead of just killing him, he could further humiliate him by taking him home as a slave. MariaXAltaïr. M in later chapters. Takes place before the events of Assassin's Creed.
1. Circumstances

**Hey all! Decided to give Altaïr and Maria some more love, (and yes, if you follow the Paths We Choose, I have also updated). Sort of AU, with a few OC's, explained below. I really don't like OC's, so I try to just stick to plots I can write without using them, however, this muse was just too good to ignore, (I think), so I introduce to you Edward and Anne Thorpe, Maria's parents:**

**Father- Edward Thorpe, high ranking Templar who is injured and returning home from battle to recuperate. Is held in high esteem by other Templars, and is a strict master. **

**Anne (née Thompson)Thorpe– Mother to Maria, a homemaker and mistress of the household. She is less educated than Maria, and appeals to traditional ideals about a woman's duties, etc. Has 6 servants under her authority, mainly for cooking and cleaning, and for tough labour when her husband is absent. Is a loving woman, but never lets Maria forget that she is still unwed. **

** In this story, Maria is 18 years old, and is unmarried, which causes a rift between her mother and her. Also, Altaïr is younger, 23 years old. I wanted the two of them to be younger, as it seemed the only way I could have Maria living with her parents in Acre. **

**Again, ALL EVENTS OCCUR BEFORE ASSASSIN'S CREED! **

**and...**

**All characters belong to Ubisoft, not me. **

**Read, Review, and Enjoy!**

* * *

Maria Thorpe sat at her desk, staring blankly out her window. A warm evening breeze ruffled her braided hair; a few stray wisps tickled her neck. She took in Acre's bleak landscape and sighed. Although it was grey like England, the warm air and the exotic scents wafting through it made her homesick.

Her father, Edward, held a high rank in the Templar order, and when Robert de Sable had made plans to claim the Holy Land; her father had left with him. A few months passed, and after much deliberation, her father decided it best for his wife and daughter to join him, and start a new life in Acre. They occupied a reasonably large section of the fortress in Acre, with a number of servants under their ownership. Living around Templars for the last several years had made Maria long for the live of one– wishing she could join her father in his Crusade. However, as she was a woman, she soon realized that thanks to the accepted ideals of men, she would never be able to lend her blade.

Her father had taught her from a young age how to defend herself. In England, she had studied how to use a dagger under her father's watchful eye. She had spent countless afternoons riding through the thick woods on horseback, hunting game with a bow and arrow. Despite these things, she was still unable to help the Templars in any way, other than behaving like a proper lady.

_Bloody idiots._

She glanced down at the blank page, her brow furrowed in annoyance. She had taken it upon herself to become educated in anything that might have to do with the Templar's crusade. She studied maps of the different regions, read historical accounts of battles won and lost, trying to better understand her enemy. Yet today, she found herself struggling to keep her concentration on her work.

* * *

Maria's head snapped up when she heard the slow plodding of horses hooves. She stood from her desk, carelessly tossing her quill down. She raced down three flights of stairs, and stopped, checking herself before she glided into the kitchen, looking for her mother.

_No need for another lecture on the graces a lady should have…_

"Now, Maria, look at your hair" her mother stepped towards her, her mouth a thin line. Her thin fingers tried in vain to tuck the strays away before Maria swatted her hand away.

"It's fine, mother. I can look after myself, thank you."

"If that were the case, you'd already have a husband by now."

Maria scowled.

Her mother sighed, and turned to wipe her hands off on a towel. Her weary face was brighter today, her brown eyes sparkling like they used to when Maria was younger. Although she was in her forties, she still retained much of her beauty. Her brown hair was kept in a perpetually flawless bun, and her cheeks were rosy from baking. Although they had more than enough servants, Anne preferred to do most of the cooking herself. Having come from a simple farm before marrying up, she had been used to a life of work; she was happiest when her hands were busy.

Edward Thorpe burst in the door, a large grin spreading across his face as he saw his wife and daughter were there to greet him.

" 'Ere's my little flower!" He exclaimed, spreading his arms to accommodate her embrace.

Maria wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his robes, "I've missed you so much– with you gone, all I've been doing is studying and doing chores."

"Maria…" Anne warned.

Edward chuckled, "Now, ladies, I'm sure you have much more to tell me about what I've missed– like your birthday. Isn't that right dear?"

Anne smiled, "Well, yes, actually. Fairly uneventful, although I was hoping you might have brought something back…"

Edward smiled, "Certainly. I'm sure you will be anxious to take a look at some of the fabric and spices we acquired on one of our sieges."

"That reminds me, why have you returned father– in your last message you said that everything was moving ahead of schedule, and that you'd be there for –"

"I was injured." He smiled sadly, "Nothing too serious, but as a captain, I need to be in fighting form at all times. So, here I am."

"How long will you be staying with us?"

"Only as long as is necessary, unfortunately– a few weeks, a month at the longest. "

Anne's smile fell slightly.

"But," Edward clapped his hands together, "now is time for celebration!"

* * *

Altaïr had spent the past two days on the back of a horse, bound, gagged, and neglected. His wounds were still raw and open, would send spasms up his chest and leg. The entirety of his journey had been spent berating himself, cursing his arrogance and overconfidence. He had disobeyed another Assassin's warning, and instead of retreating, Altaïr stayed, ready to take on another wave of fresh Templars. He had managed to take out several of the remaining few, before an entire platoon crested the hill. Altaïr steeled himself, ready for his biggest challenge yet. In the heat of the battle, he had felt steel slash through his upper leg, bringing him to his knees, and another deep slice across his chest. Hot blood drained from his wounds, rapidly soaking his white robes. He found himself on his back, brow furrowed in agony as he felt the gush of blood leaving his body with each pump of his heart. He looked up to see the light blocked out by a circle of soldiers glaring down at him, swords and spears at the ready. The captain parted through the crowd, and looked down at the fallen Assassin. He ordered he brought to stand, condescension and smugness over his features. He told his men that the Assassin before him was none other than Altaïr Ibn La'Ahad, one of the order's finest. Out of what some might consider pity, the captain decided to spare his life. Those who understood the circumstances that death would be much more welcome to an Assassin or Templar alike, than being taken prisoner. Now he had been taken to be a slave for the Templar's family , something truly degrading for anyone, let alone an Assassin.

The journey, had been rough on his body, each bump or dip in the road had jarred his injuries, many times causing them to bleed anew. His robes were crusted stiff with his blood, and caked with mud from when he had fallen from the horse into the mud. As he had lost so much blood, he found himself sliding off of his mount frequently. After three or four falls, the captain had decided to sling the Assassin over the horse on his stomach, so he need not sit up. This would have worked better, if it weren't for the fact that he was now placing most of the pressure on his deep wounds. When they had finally reached the Templar's home, Altaïr couldn't even keep himself upright, slumping to the ground in fatigue. He ached from top to bottom, hardly daring to breathe as each inhalation strained the muscles torn from battle.

Two guards and two servants rushed to collect him, hurrying off to the bathhouse in the servant's quarters. Altaïr heard the word "bath" several times, and closed his eyes, grateful for one thing.

* * *

"So… where's my gift?" Maria inquired, hands behind her back in a childlike gesture.

Edward chuckled, "Soon enough my flower. Why don't you help your mother in the kitchen while I get out of my armour, hmm?"

Maria sighed, "I suppose."

"There's a good girl." He turned, and walked up the stairs to the second floor.

Maria sighed, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. She heard her mother's laughter and cringed. She turned instead to the door, slipping out quietly to tend to the horses. She walked towards the hitching posts when she saw several servants and armed guards leading a man away to the servant's quarters.

_Another one? Really father, this is becoming excessive. _

She pursued them from a safe distance, curiosity peaked, as they had to stop several times, and wait for him to stop groaning.

_What happened to him? _

Maria looked down to the ground, concern lining her face when she saw a trail of dark drips in the dirt behind him.

They stumbled into the bathhouse, trying to keep the door open and keep the man upright at the same time. Maria grumbled to herself as the doors obstructed her view. As much as she wanted to investigate further, she knew that she would be called for dinner as soon as she discovered anything interesting.

As she turned, she heard a pained moan, and cringed, _Perhaps I should just ignore whatever is going on in there…_

* * *

Over the course of dinner, Edward had retold fantastic tales of the Templar's exploits while in Jerusalem and Damascus, striking wonder into Maria's eyes.

"It's not fair that you get to have all the fun father, why can't I come along when you return?!"

Edward exchanged a glance with Anne, "Now, darling, you know why. It's not safe for a woman to be doing those things." Maria's expression fell. "I need you here with your mother– how would I sleep at night if you were ever hurt?"

Maria slouched slightly, "But you've trained me yourself, I'm just a good of a fighter as any boy!"

"That's enough of that young lady," Anne interrupted, "Why don't you go ask the cook what's for desert, hm?"

Maria stood indignantly, "Fine."

"What are we going to do about that one Eddie?" Anne sighed.

"Give her time, she'll come around."

* * *

"Alright, close your eyes, and hold out your hands Maria." Edward stood, his arms behind his back to conceal her gift. As Maria closed her eyes, her mind ran wild, trying to imagine what it could be before she found out.

_Has to be something small, something that could be hidden behind his back. God, I hope it's not another horrid necklace. _

She opened her eyes when she felt something cold placed in them. Her face lit up as she examined an ornamental dagger, it's tang decorated lavishly with Byzantine metalwork, and a sheath to match. She pulled it out, marvelling at the craftsmanship of the gleaming steel. She fished the blade through the air in a figure-eight pattern, mimicking an attack pattern.

"Father, it's beautiful! Where d–"

"I took this one from a Saracen captain, it's yours to use now, but be careful my flower, it is extremely sharp."

Maria frowned, "Of course. I know how to handle a blade, father."

"I didn't mean it as an insult Maria, but you must be careful when you use any weapon. I'm sure you know that, but I feel obligated as your father to say so."

Maria smiled, "Sorry, I… well I guess that lately I've been feeling particularly smothered."

"One day you'll have your fight Maria, just be patient."

* * *

Altaïr sputtered as he felt cold water slide down his body and into his wounds. He struggled to get out of the tub, but hands pushed him down again.

"Look, I know it 'urts Assassin, but stay still."

Altaïr let a growl slip though his teeth as he felt another pitcher of frigid water spill over his head. They threw a bar of lye soap to him.

"Getch'ya self cleaned, den we've godda show you to the masta." They turned and left him to bathe.

Altaïr sat for a moment, shell-shocked. He looked down at his wounds, wondering how they'd ever heal if it appeared that no one was going to give him anything for them. He grimaced as he set about cleaning his aching body. After several painful minutes, he doused himself with another pitcher of water, hissing as the soap trickled into the cuts. He rose from the tub, and looked around for his clothes. Although he had seen where they had left them, they weren't there anymore. He could only hope that they took them to be cleaned, and then promptly returned to him. However, he knew that would not be case. He looked around for anything to dry himself off with, and only came up with a thin, moth-eaten linen towel.

As he walked to the door, the servants returned, holding clothes in their arms.

" 'ere, put these on. They're not quite what you're used to, but they'll do for Acre."

Altaïr looked at the clothes, examining each piece before he put them on. The rough wool stockings felt strange against his legs, much too restrictive to be comfortable. He slipped an inner tunic over him, scowling against the itchy flax.

_Leave it to the Templars to create clothing as uncomfortable as it is functional. _

After he was properly outfitted, the guards grabbed him roughly, dragging him out to where the Templar's family stood waiting.

Altaïr stared back at them, shame filling him as he saw how they gaped at him. The youngest– his daughter, Altaïr presumed, had a particularly marked expression. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, something between contempt and fascination.

"So this is that famous Assassin, father?" Maria quipped, her voice laced with scorn.

"Yes, my flower, his name, I believe was Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"His family name means, 'Son of None'".

Maria scoffed, "So he's a bastard?"

"Maria!" Her mother gasped, astonished at her language.

Altaïr struggled against the grip the guards had on his arms, only feeling it tighten as a result.

Edward chuckled softly as Anne reprimanded Maria.

"No, dear. It doesn't quite mean that. His first name means 'the flying one'–"

"Why do these people have such strange names?"

"Well, I suppose to him, Maria Thorpe must be a strange name too."

She snorted, "At least my name doesn't imply I'm a ba– uh… of illegitimate birth."

Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"Alright father, that's great and all, but do we really need another servant?

Her father turned, facing towards his family, "It's not about whether we need another servant or not- it's more than that. He is an Assassin, and we are Templars. To him, this is the worst fate that could possibly be bestowed upon him. He and his kind are unfeeling, immoral killers. Cowards who hide in the shadows, waiting until men turn their backs to them to strike."

Maria's scowl deepened as she looked at Altaïr with contempt. He tried to remember what the Templar had said, struggling to understand why she was staring at him with such hatred.

"So, being made to heel at the feet of a Templar is one of the most humiliating actions possible. He will serve our family well– for him to have to serve the Templars is the definition of betrayal to his Creed."

Altaïr's heart sank as he heard the last sentence, understanding all that was said.

_So, he spared me to make a mockery of my life. How generous. Once my wounds have healed, we'll see how long they can keep me here. _

* * *

**A/N: So, tell me what you think, and if you mind terribly that I gave some of the English guards colloquial spelling in their dialogue. I'm not planning on using it for Maria or her family, as it read differently to my Beta reader and I, and in all honesty made them sound a little... uneducated, to put it politely. Anyway, let me know if the inconsistency bothers you, although I don't think you'll be seeing too much of the guards or servants after the next chapter. **

**Stay lovely!**


	2. Ownership

**Hey all! So... how'd you like the chapter?**

**I'm not really sure how long this will play out; it could end really soon, like after 2 more chapters, or longer, if you'd like. Lemme know, and I'll see what I can do. **

**Read, Review, and Repeat **

**Ubisoft owns, guys... not me. Shocking, isn't it?**

* * *

After bidding goodnight to her parents, Maria trudged slowly up the stairs, cursing the fact that she had to walk all the way up to the third floor. She held out her candle as she entered the room, sweeping it in a semi-circle in front of her, trying to light the darkness. The wax from the candle threatened to spill onto her hand, so she quickly paced over to her desk, putting it down carefully. She walked back out into the hallway, taking a torch from the wall into her room to light her other candles. A heavy sigh fell from her lips as she surveyed the room– after ensuring there was nothing lurking in the corners, she walked to her armoire, and took out a light nightgown.

She striped of her dress and underskirts, a contented moan released when she shrugged out of her strophium, running her fingers lightly over breasts.

_Freedom at last!_

Maria quickly slipped into her nightgown, and tucked herself under the covers of her bed.

_Ahh… bloody hell. _

She begrudgingly left her bed, and staggered over to her desk where the candle sat. She blew it out swiftly and walked back to her bed. She snuggled into her covers and blew out her bedside candle, leaving her bedroom in darkness.

* * *

Altaïr was led into the servants' quarters again, this time pushed towards a staircase leading to the basement. He followed the dimly-lit stairs, careful to avoid missing one, while still keeping the guards' pace, lest he be shoved again. They continued down, until they reached a series of what appeared to be cells.

_Wonderful, I get to rot in some godforsaken Templar jail. _

"Move it, Assassin – we 'aven't got awl night!"

Altaïr walked forward again, stopping, when told, at the end of the row. One of the guards opened the gate, " 'ere you go, nice an' snug."

The other guard shoved him through the door, ensuring he would land on his wounded leg.

Altaïr swore under his breath, trying to ease the pain through profanity.

The guards walked in, taking both of his arms, and slipping them into cuffs chained to the wall.

"Just to make sure you don't get any ideas– _Assassin._"

He grunted as they pulled him back against the wall roughly, pulling his arms back enough to stretch the muscles in his chest. A trickle of blood ran down under his shirt through the cracks in his scab. He winced, setting his jaw against the fresh wave of pain that washed over him.

His gate closed with a clang, the scrape of key against lock ensuring Altaïr that he wouldn't be going anywhere tonight. He let his head hang over his chest when he was sure the guards had left.

His chest felt heavy with his newfound solitude. Completely alone, thrown in a Templar dungeon, and tomorrow, the beginning of a life in slavery.

_NO. I refuse to accept that. No Assassin would ever let that happen– and I'm certainly not going to be the first. I don't care what it takes, I will leave this place, and I will kill the man who brought me here. Al Mualim's will be damned. _

* * *

Maria tossed in her sleep, failing to drift off for several hours. She twisted onto her side and opened her eyes slowly. Her dagger glinted in the moonlight streaming in through her shutters. Maria reached her hand out from under the covers, and ran a finger down he silky metal. She brought it towards her to investigate it closer. The intricacies of the sheathe were the most elaborate she had ever seen– such detail in metal work was truly a thing of beauty. She laid it under her pillow, and wrapped her fingers around it securely. She began to feel her eyelids droop, when she heard scuffling outside her window.

She laid completely still, hardly daring to breathe, as she strained to hear. The sound continued, making its way up the wall. She waited, horrified as her shutters were pried open from the outside, and someone made their way into the room.

Her fingers tightened on the dagger as she listened to him searching through the papers on her desk.

_A thief? In the fortress?! How the hell did he manage to get in here?_

He slowly made his way over to her bedside, after realizing there was nothing on the desk of value.

She closed her eyes, planning her attack carefully.

She sensed him reaching his hand out, and she sprung, swiping it away with her empty hand. At the same instant, her other hand swiped the dagger across his cheek effortlessly in a clean arch.

He jumped back, horrified, and let out a garbled scream much to feminine for a man to have.

Maria stood, taking an offensive stance, and preparing for her next strike.

"Is that the best you've got? A scream my six-year old cousin would be ashamed of?"

The intruder stood nervously, glancing between the open window and the woman in front of him. He hastily decided on which was the safest option, and ran wisely to the window, leaping out of it. Maria hurried over, watching him run away over the rooftops.

"Run you bloody coward– RUN!"

She closed the shutters again, running her hands over arms. She realized as she walked back over to her bed, that her legs were shaking– not from fear, but from adrenaline. Technically, that was her first armed confrontation she had ever had, and she had fared quite well. She sat down, wiping the blood from the blade onto her nightgown's hem.

Her door opened suddenly, her father stood, candle in one hand, sword in the other, with her mother in tow.

"Maria? Are you alright?!" He quickly strode to her bedside, unnerved to see her with blood on her nightgown.

"Are you injured? What happened?"

"Father, I'm fine," she scoffed, "some bloody idiot thought he could break in and steal something."

Her mother ran over, taking a seat beside her on the bed, "We heard you scream, and we–"

Maria laughed, "That was not my scream you heard."

"Whose was it? The intruder?"

"Oh, Maria. What have you done now…" her mother rested her head on Maria's shoulder.

Maria stood, shrugging her mother off of her, "I had trouble sleeping, and so I grabbed my dagger, so I could look at it. Then I heard something outside my widow, so I waited, weapon in hand." Maria sheathed the blade, "Then, I waited until he walked towards me, and reached out with his hand–"

Anne gasped, clutching her hands to her mouth.

Maria rolled her eyes, "Then I slapped that bastard's hand away, and sliced him across the cheek." She swiped the dagger through the air, narrowly missing her father's arm. "He decided to run, the coward. Although, I suppose it's better he left."

"Yes, it is," Edward said, his voice grave, "or you could have been injured. Maria, you should have called for help."

Maria gave him a questioning expression, arms open in exasperation, "Did I not just prove definitively that I can take care of myself?!"

"What if he had been armed Maria? Or a better fighter? What then?" He stood, resting the tip of his sword on the ground. "I don't like it. I'm going to have guards posted in your room– I don' know why I haven't insisted on that before."

"Maybe because we live in a bloody fortress father! I don't need any guards posted in my room, or anywhere else! I can look after myself, thank you."

"Are you challenging my authority Maria?"

She looked him square in the eyes, "Yes, I am. I think it ridiculous and unnecessary."

Edward sighed, looking at her challengingly, "Very well, have it as you would. Instead of posting guards, I will leave you in charge of the Assassin. You are to be his master, and I expect that you, and you alone will be able to keep him in check, and from escaping. He will stay in your presence at all times, including when you sleep in your room."

"Edward– what are you suggesting?!" Anne interjected.

"Now darling," he began, placing a hand on her shoulder, "If she thinks herself such a fighter, than what an opportunity to keep her on her toes."

"But he's an Assassin– a very highly trained _Assassin!_ You'd have your teenage daughter be left in charge of a killer?!"

"She said it herself Anne, she can look after herself." He glared, and turned on his heel.

Maria watched her father's retreating form with anger. Her mother stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure as whether she should follow her husband, or stay and lecture her daughter.

"My darling Maria– whatever happened to that obedient little girl I used to know." She turned quickly, leaving Maria to ruminate in the dark room.

* * *

Altaïr was woken violently by searing pain through his chest. His eyes snapped open, and his arms reached to find the source of the pain, but were halted by heavy chains.

"Nice try." A guard sneered down at him, tugging on the chain.

Altaïr was brought to his feet, head feeling heavy against his chest. The guards dragged him out to the front of the building, waiting attentively for their master to give them orders.

Altaïr sagged in his stance, the weight of holding himself up become a strain because of the growing infection in his wounds. If he didn't get medical attention soon, he doubted he would make a recovery.

_That is not an option._

After fifteen minutes of standing under the soldier's painful grip, Altaïr watched the Templar captain walk out of the door, his usual smug grin replaced with a vexed expression. He walked up to the guards, and murmured something too quiet for Altaïr to understand. The guards looked surprised for a moment, but regained their composure after the captain cleared his throat in irritation.

Altaïr prepared himself to be jostled again, bracing his shoulders stiffly. Instead, he watched the captain stride past him, and into the maze of buildings behind him. Puzzled, Altaïr looked between the two guards, trying to decipher what had transpired. Soon enough the door opened again, and his daughter emerged, a disgruntled expression marring her features.

She walked up to Altaïr, and straightened up, trying to diminish the height difference between them.

"Kneel, Assassin." She spat coldly.

Altaïr blinked, his confusion obvious.

"You will kneel when in my presence, or when you must address me, is that clear?"

The guards pushed Altaïr down to his knees after he still would not comply.

Maria indicated his position, "Kneel when I am here. I am your mistress, and you my servant– understood?"

Altaïr glared up at her, fully understanding the situation. He set his jaw, and gave her a black look.

Maria smiled haughtily, "Good." She paused for a moment, trying to figure out what exactly the protocol was for a mistress talking to a new servant. She cleared her throat, trying to cover up her uneasiness with cold dismissal, "You will address me as…" she wracked her brain, trying to find the right words, "M'lady."

Altaïr felt his lips fumble with the strange word.

Maria frowned at the mal-formed title, "No, never mind, I don't quite like the sounds of that." She paused again, holding her chin, "Alright, how about… no… that's not right…"

Altaïr stared, slightly amused as the woman in front of him murmuring to herself and shaking her head.

"Habibi." Altaïr interjected.

Maria whipped her head around, "Pardon me?!"

"Habibi– it means the same thing in my language." Altaïr offered, smirking inwardly.

"How do I know you're telling the truth? What if it's something horribly offensive?"

"You don't." Altaïr laughed.

Maria inhaled sharply, placing her hands on her hips, "Very funny– Assassin. Truly. No, I do not wish to be called something in your barbaric language– besides, I don't think my father would approve of it ei–" a rebellious smile formed on her lips. "on second thought, perhaps that is fitting."

Altaïr sighed wearily.

_Will this woman ever shut her mouth. _

"Now, what was your name again?"

Altaïr made no effort to speak.

Maria cleared her throat and asked him again, indignantly. Still Altaïr was silent. Maria gestured to the guards, and one of them struck Altaïr across the cheek.

"You're trying my patience, Assassin. Would you have me call you that for the rest of your days? Or perhaps, coward…"

"Altaïr." He finally spat.

Maria lifted an eyebrow, "Altayeh…? Allt– no." She shook her head. "No, I shall call you habibi, and you shall have to call me something else."

Altaïr's eyebrows formed an inquisitive expression, "You, call _me_ habibi?"

Maria simpered, "Yes, as it means M'Lady, I figured that would be quite demeaning enough for the likes of you. Besides, I'm sure you can find some other title for me in your… language."

Altaïr fought the urge to laugh at her suggestion.

"Hurry along then, _habibi_, we have much to do today." Maria had already turned, and had begun walking towards the house.

* * *

The guards threw Altaïr down to the ground, leaving him in the dust as they retreated in the direction of their captain.

"Where do you think you're going?" Maria called out to the guards.

"We 'ave orders– you're to be left in complete charge o' this un. We're supposed to leave 'im be."

Maria watched, her stomach clenching as she realized the full gravity of her situation. "Uh… Excuse me?! You, habibi, get a move on!" She watched him, as he struggled to get up.

_Please oh please, don't try anything._

She tried to calm herself, realizing that he didn't appear to be moving at any great speed.

"Get the lead out! I haven't got –"

Altaïr failed to stop a loud groan as he felt another stab of pain.

Maria paused, "Are you… are you injured or something?"

"Yes, Malika."

She sighed heavily, "Well, I won't be able to carry you, you're going to have to walk on your own."

Altaïr staggered over to her, wincing slightly as he straightened to his full height.

"Come up to my chambers, and I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Maria stopped by the kitchen on the way inside, and grabbed bandage rolls, salve, a needle and thread, and some clean rags. Not knowing the extent of his injuries, she wasn't sure of exactly what to grab. She found him waiting outside her door, bracing against the wall.

"Well, at least you haven't run off yet."

Altaïr grunted half-heartedly.

She opened the door, and placed the items on a table in the centre of the room. Altaïr still stood in the doorway, glancing around fervently.

"Come in habibi, no need to be shy." She grabbed a basin of water from her bedside table, and brought it over to him. "Lie down."

Altaïr lifted himself onto the table deftly, and watched her as she unrolled some bandage.

"Now then, where exactly are you injured?"

"Here, and here." He explained slowly, indicating to his chest and leg. "With a sword. Deep cuts."

Maria's brow creased. "Well, we'll need to take these off then. No point in slashing holes in your clothes."

Altaïr looked down at his clothes, and began to lift the tunics over his head. Maria heard him hiss as he pried the inner layer from where it was stuck to his chest from blood. She felt her stomach turn as she saw the deep gash, already beginning to turn septic.

"Good Lord– how long has it been like this?"

"Three days."

She soaked a rag in the water, squeezing out the majority of it. She brought it to his chest, and ran it over the wound. Altaïr snarled, and pulled away, fresh pain sharp against the constant throbbing underneath.

"I thought you Assassins were supposed to be unfeeling. It appears you are much weaker than anticipated."

Altaïr glared, "You do not need to apply such force. Here I thought women were gentle."

Maria's temper flared, "Oh? Is that what you've heard, is it?" She punctuated her statement by roughly dragging the cloth down the wound, pressing firmly.

"Biraz!" Altaïr grabbed her wrist and forced it away from him.

"Get your hands off of me!"

"Then stop hurting me, _Malika_."

Maria huffed in annoyance and anger. She soaked the cloth anew, and held it out to him, "If you're going to be such a baby about it, then do it yourself."

Altaïr took the rag, and began to gingerly clean the wound. His breath caught a few times as he hit a few sensitive spots. After a few minutes, he had been able to clean the wound out, and it had begun to bleed again. His fingers reached for the jar of salve, when Maria's hand slapped it away.

He glared up at her, "What now Malika?"

"Say please."

"No– there is no need. I should not have to ask for such things when I am in need."

"Oh really? Have you forgotten your place already, habibi? You are my servant, and I your mistress–"

"Yes, yes, that I know– you have made it clear many times. I mean that I am in need of help, would you rather I die under your care than help me?" he challenged.

Maria squirmed, feeling as though her father was lecturing her again, "No, I just…" she closed her eyes, realizing that as much as she wanted to be difficult, this man was her responsibility: if anything were to happen to him, she would pay the price from her father.

She silently picked up the jar, and smeared some of the paste onto her finger. She delicately rubbed over the reddened skin, watching his expression the entire time. He held her gaze, staring at her with an unreadable expression.

"Is that better?" she asked softly, still looking at him.

He nodded silently.

She resumed her work, taking broader strokes, and applying more salve. He winced a few times, and she paused to accommodate him. When she had finished, she turned her attention to his leg, asking him to take those off with a flushed expression.

He obeyed silently; sliding off the stockings, glad to be rid of the horrid things. "How do your men wear these every day?" he inquired.

"I suppose they're used to it. My people wear them their whole lives, so I suppose not wearing them would be stranger."

The wound on his leg was not as bad as the one on his chest, nor as deep. She took care to wipe it off gently, then carefully rubbed salve into it. She managed to keep herself busy enough to ignore the fact that she had an almost-naked man in her bedroom.

* * *

**A/N Hey guys, just FYI**

**Habibi- darling/my love. I decided to keep it in the masculine form, so that it wouldn't be derogatory to Altaïr.**

**Malika– Queen; Altaïr is sassing her, in case you couldn't figure that out :)**

**So... see you on the next chapter :P**

**Stay Lovely!**


	3. Tactics

**Ubisoft owns**

**I just like putting Altaïr in horrible circumstances it would appear...**

**Read and review!**

* * *

Maria wiped her fingers off on his tunic, and then fixed her gaze once more on his chest. "I suppose this'll have to be stitched then…" She picked up the needle and threaded it, her fingers fumbling, unfamiliar with the process. She bit her bottom lip as she attempted to find a proper point of entry. After a few minutes, Altaïr broke the silence, his voice soft in an effort to be as less offensive as possible.

"Do you want me to do it– I've done it before."

"No, that's fine, I can do it." She slid the needle through his skin, cringing at how the thread tugged slightly as it slipped through.

"I guess I'm just more upset that something my mother said I should do more of, actually would have come in handy."

Altaïr snorted lightly, amused at her words, " I thought women sewed all day ."

Maria's frown returned, her eyes hardening as she looked down on him, "You know, perhaps you should choose your words carefully– I might just get upset enough to make them sloppy. I might have to redo them several times."

Altaïr sighed, trying not to wince as she dug the needle through one too many layers of muscle.

Maria's brow became heavy with concentration, her focus entirely on her task. She placed her hand against the plane of his chest for support, absentmindedly rubbing her fingers against his smooth, warm skin. Altaïr watched her fingers; curious as to why they moved as if under their own accord. He did find her soft touch a pleasant change from being thrown around by guards and soldiers. His eyes traced over her features, taking in her long dark eyelashes, the faded freckles on her cheeks. The way she tucked one corner of her lip under her teeth while she worked. The pull of her lips sent a twinge through his body, nestling in his centre. He continued to watch her, enjoying the warmth he felt throughout his body.

Maria's fingers moved deftly, eventually getting the hang of suturing. Although his wound still bled a little, the redness surrounding it seemed to attenuate already. She finished, and tugged against the thread, trying to break the end off. Instead of cutting it, she only managed to pull on it, tugging Altaïr's skin in the process. He hissed dangerously, and she apologized, bringing her teeth to the thread, and cutting it between them. Her lips brushed against his chest, and she let them linger for the briefest of seconds.

"Now, your leg?"

He nodded, silent once more.

She re-threaded the needle again, and stood on the side of his leg. She ran her fingers around the wound, finding her starting point once again. He took her hand, and placed it at the bottom of the wound.

"Start here, when I walk, it pulls from here. Needs to be stronger here."

"Oh… alright then."

She started again, feeling more assured in her motions than she was the first time. Altaïr's hand blanketed her free one. She assumed he held it there because of pain, and was trying to communicate it. She tried to keep her actions gentler in the hopes that he would let go of her hand, however, he kept it there until she finished.

"Well, I guess that'll be good enough for the likes of you." She brushed her hands off, and stood, puzzled by the expression on his face. "What's wrong now?"

"What does that mean- like of you…"

"Likes, not like." She snorted condescendingly. "It means it's good enough for an Assassin."

Altaïr stood, trying not to wince, "Why do you keep calling me that? I have told you my name. You said yourself you call me habibi."

She gave him a warning look, and tried to draw a few more inches by straightening her back, "I do not have to reason with an unfeeling monster. You kill innocent men and women all because your master commands you to." She spat.

"And are you Templars any better? Killing in the name of…" he paused, looking for the right word, "justice."

Maria raised an eyebrow, "I don't think that's right at all. The Templars– we don't kill for justice, we do what we have to, to keep our people safe. If that means killing a few inbred, heathen Assassins in the process, so be it."

Altaïr grabbed her arm firmly, she winced slightly in more surprise than in pain. His eyes had a dangerous edge beneath them, "When will you learn to respect what you do not know, Templar?"

She tugged at his hand, eventually pestering his fingers enough so he let go, "We will never be able to be around each other without trying to kill the other. There is no point in learning about the other, except to learn their weakness."

Altaïr looked down on her, scorn and pity across his features. He turned his gaze to his stitches, and ran his fingers over them, checking their thoroughness.

Maria followed his fingers as they ghosted over his lean muscles to where they had been sewn. Scars lay littered across the bands of muscle, some deeper and more jagged than others.

"It doesn't appear that you're a very good fighter."

Altaïr scoffed, "My wounds are small, my enemies' are great."

Maria scowled at his quip, and turned on her heel out of the room.

* * *

"I cannot believe the nerve of this man!" Maria stalked into the kitchen, her hands above her hand in outrage.

The servants turned and regarded her questioningly. The oldest of them approached her, wooden spoon still in hand, "Prythee, what do you mean milady?"

Maria slumped down in a chair, and picked absentmindedly at a loaf of freshly baked bread. "This, heathen– Assassin, expects me to treat him as if we are equals. He dares to compare the Templars to his own barbaric creed!" she tore a great chunk out, earning a smack on the hand with the wooden spoon.

"We come from all walks of life milady. Although the Templars and Assassins fight for different reasons, they both fight because they think the other is wrong, and they must protect the world from them."

Maria scoffed, "What on earth do you bloody think you're talking about? You speak as if you know them– of our own Order's agenda. You, a simple cook–"

"Try and show him some kindness, and he'll turn around." She smiled knowingly.

Maria stood, "Like I would treat that barbarian, that _base creature_ like anything other than he is!" she stomped out of the kitchen, oblivious in her anger of the chuckles that filled the room as she left it.

* * *

Altaïr stood alone in her chambers, wondering what on earth had just happened. The last thing he could remember was feeling her small hands finish working, and how her eyes lingered on his muscles. His abdomen felt warm, as if having been replaced with honey, or some other warm liquid. He rested his tall frame against the table, trying in vain to stretch out the soreness still residing in his back. Try as he might, whenever he felt the beginnings of the stretch, he would feel the tug of his stitches, and was forced to cease then and there. Any attempt to solitarily cure the ache would only result in pulling out his stitches.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, cursing himself yet again for managing to get himself into this beautifully fucked up situation.

It would be at least another few days before his stiches healed enough to fight his way out of the Templar stronghold. However, the enemy he feared the most was not the chain mail-clad Templar, nor the broad sword wielding guard, but this stubborn, childish woman.

_Yet, also the woman who calls me habibi_

He smirked softly as he recalled the way it fell, albeit foreignly, from her lips.

_That is one word she must never realize what it truly means. _

* * *

As Maria climbed the stairs, her internal argument ebbed and flowed from two opposite ideas.

_Perhaps she was right– to show some kindness might be the thing necessary to squeeze some cooperation out of him. After all, I'm sure I'd be the first to show him that kindness…_

_Then again, why should I be the one to offer this undeserved blessing to an unfeeling–_

_There'd no good answer to this, is there?_

She paused, realizing she had been standing in front of her door for the last few seconds. She blinked, and shook her head, trying to make her mind up.

_Fine, he has one opportunity, and that's it. Besides, if it doesn't work, I can always easily go back to the old way – no skin off of my back. _

_It'll only make my job easier if he cooperates anyways…_

She sighed, and pushed the door open.

* * *

**Okay, this one was pretty short, but I wanted to upload something new :P**

**Comment and reviews are awesome!**

**Stay lovely, **

**juno57**


	4. More With Honey

**Hey all!**

**Sorry for the delay– I've been really busy with Transcendence, so pretty much everything else has fallen by the wayside!**

**This chapter is definitely longer than the last one was, but is more filler than anything... I'm afraid this one might end up falling apart before I can finish it–I feel it's kinda... lacking... I dunno.**

**ONLY YOUR REVIEWS WILL CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE!**

**#attentionwhore**

**-is ashamed**

**Well– I'll be hiding in this corner until I convince myself to start writing again– the plot continues to thicken for AC:T with all the conspiracy flying around Initiates lately. **

**–sigh. **

**I hope you still enjoy this chapter, if not, you're welcome to join me!**

**Ubisoft owns, mistakes and anxiety is belongs to meee. **

**Stay lovely, **

**juno57**

* * *

The black iron hinges groaned under the weight of the wooden door, its own heaviness shifting with a dry creak as Maria pushed her way in. Altaïr watched as she paced inside, customary wariness pulled his eyes to narrow at her. His breathing was shallow, not from illness, but in preventative measures; to avoid straining his stitches, his shoulders had to remain down and still– breathing only served to aggravate them.

"Get your clothes back on– I wish to go into town, and you're going to accompany me."

Altaïr stood silent for a moment, confusion slowly working its way across his brow. "Slower- please."

Slumping to rest one hand on her hip, she arched her eyebrows, "Clothes. On. Now. Habibi. We're going into the city. " She tossed his inner tunic at him, watching with mild amusement as he fumbled to catch it, a snarl vaguely pulling at his lips as his arms flexed.

"Is something wrong habibi?"

"I– my stitches are quite tight…could you–"

Maria scoffed, "What on earth do you want me to do about it?"

… _So much for kindness._

_Perhaps… later on. If he earns it._

* * *

He blinked, shaking his head minutely before wriggling into his tunic. Behind its cloth wall, his teeth clenched, and he barred them unabashedly as her eyes could not see his pain. As quickly as he could manage, he pulled the coarse fabric onto himself, stopping just short of releasing an animalistic growl when the material snagged and tugged against the wound on his arm. Not caring to tidy the chaos his dressing had caused to his hair, he stood before her, clad only in torn leggings and a thin under tunic.

"You're not serious– you look like…" Maria placed her hand in front of her mouth in an attempt to cover her stifled giggles with a pensive pose. Beckoning to him with a finger, she waited until he stopped in front of her, releasing a short exhalation at whatever pestering comment she was about to deliver. His eyes widened when she indicated he kneel, a scowl twitched at the corner of his lip.

"You will find that the less you disobey, the more pleasant this shall be for both of us." With a grunt of submission, he knelt before her, eyes closed in disbelief at his own compliance.

Maria sighed contently, watching his grimace form as he knelt in front of her. His scruffy mocha hair felt coarser than she had anticipated, and proved more challenging to straighten out than a once-over could offer. The moment her fingers had slid through his hair, his eyes snapped open. Feeling a combination of shock and disquiet, his lips parted slightly, his good arm rising to grab her hands.

"What are you– you are not–"

"Not what? I'll tell you what I'm not going to do– and that's being seen in the market with a slave whose hair is as raffish as yours. Get up– I've done what I can, but I fear it is hopeless."

He grumbled as he stood again, careful to avoid putting his weight on his bad leg.

"Hurry up! I haven't all day… neither do you."

" And what is it you are hoping to find in the souk?"

"A dress, perhaps something to eat. We shall see."

Altaïr felt his fatigue whither inside him as she sashayed through the door, hips swaying happily in spite of him.

_I truly need to be rid of this woman._

* * *

"Which one do you think is best _habibi_?"

Altaïr turned his head, trying for his own sake to look only half as bored as he truly was, "What?"

Maria gave him a pert look, "I think you've fallen a few too many times on your head." She smirked before strolling over to several dresses hanging along the interior of the vendor's stand. "Perhaps that red skirt…"

"This one."

Maria turned slightly, stopping herself before she would have had her nose in his chest.

_Where the hell did he come from?!_

She followed his arm's reach, ending with a slender finger extended to a deep indigo. "That one? Really?"

He nodded once, "You wish for one that is different, yes? This dye will suit you."

"It looks quite dark– I don't wa–"

"Like your temper."

"Excuse me?"

"Say it is not true." He crossed his arms, immediately regretting his decision to do so.

She smirked as his tone wavered from his discomfort, "I have no need to answer that– besides, it looks terribly expensive. My father will have my head if I spend my dowry on a tunic."

"Not a tunic– this is something different." She rolled her eyes, " If it pleases you, I shall try to get a good price for it."

She sighed heavily; wandering back out from under the shade of the stand while Altaïr haggled with the vendor. Her fingertips ran across a line of metal beads tied onto the hemline of a dress, filling her ears with their soft tinkling melody. Her head turned around suddenly at the sound of Altaïr's sonorous call for her to come. She felt her cheeks burn slightly from the way her name on his lips had dripped down each vertebrae in her back.

She gave him a portentous look, "You're not to call me by my first name– need a remind you _habibi_?"

The vendor let out a hearty laugh despite Altaïr's glare, stopping only when he muttered to the old man something sharp sounding in Arabic. The man sheepishly lowered his gaze, and held out the item in his hands for Maria to inspect.

"It looks fine– what are these things?" her fingers wound around a few strands of cloth that seemed to originate from somewhere on the garment.

"When you wear it, you will see." He simpered as he held out his hand. She frowned as she looked between his pleased expression and his open hand.

"'Wha–"

"I have no coin– this is your own item, is it not?"

"You better have gotten a good price for that."

"And if I didn't?"

She stood on her tiptoes, jabbing a finger into his chest, "Then you should pray to your god that I don't give you a just punishment for wasting your mistresses' money."

He lowered his voice to a murmur, "I look towards it."

She lost herself for a moment, the playful glint that liquefied in his eyes, and the slight rasp that caught in his throat on each vowel. She wobbled over, slumping into his chest, bracing herself against him until she got her balance back. She cleared her throat, but the light pink dust on her cheeks remained, "A valiant effort– however, it is _forward_ not towards, you twit."

Altaïr was reduced to watching her walk away from him again, and he growled in frustration at the idiot he appeared to become every time he opened his mouth around her.

_That requires an adjustment. _

* * *

With a grand gesture of the utmost tossing of womanly virtues to the wind, Maria threw herself onto her bed, the posts creaked in protest of the running start she had taken. Collapsing inwards as she giggled to herself, she kicked at her shoes, not wanting to end up sleeping where she had trod. After several attempts, which yielded no progress in removing the offending items, she sat up with a grumble, tearing at the straps with nimble fingers. Two consecutive slaps on the ground, and she laid back again, toes wriggling, happily freed of their prisons.

_Well that was glorious– hopefully father doesn't ask for my monthly expenditures… I will have some repenting for the lies I'll tell!_

She sat up as Altaïr entered her room, arms laden with her purchases. Gritting his teeth as he shoved his weight against the door, he pushed his way in, letting a stream of mumbled Arabic curses at her, hoping she wasn't actually in the room. Three items brushed on the door, sliding to the floor, where they neatly upset themselves in a rumple.

"To what reason do I owe thanks for you bloody throwing my new dresses on the floor?" She crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head back to give him a reproachful look.

Altaïr's lips parted to offer a complaint or excuse, but seeing her sprawled out in her bed silenced him. He shook his head, setting down the items in his arms on a table before stooping to pick up the pile of clothes on the floor.

"Are you quite sure these will fit me? I never even got a chance to try them on with you and that old man squawking at each other."

"No– they will fit." He held out the one he had picked for her, "Try and see if you do not trust my word."

She scoffed, "Well, I suppose… your word was never in question, I only…" a sigh filled the room, " hand it over."

He stared at her quizzically, "… han–"

"Give it to me you oaf!" sliding from the bed, she snatched it from his hand, "I do believe you are going to have to leave– unless you wish to lose your eyes."

He turned wordlessly, leaning with his good arm against the table.

Maria let out an indefinite noise of confusion and annoyance_, … fine… be a fucking pervert then…_ "If you turn around–"

"You will need help with this dress."

'Says the degenerate."

Resting his head in his hand, Altaïr sighed from the bottom of his lungs.

* * *

_What is taking so long? What on earth is she doing in there? Yes, this is more… complex than her daily dress, but it is not impossible. Surely… _

"Do you require help?"

"NO– stay where you are, _thank you_!" came a muffled reply.

Altaïr turned around, almost allowing a chuckle that had snuck up on him release. Before him, Maria stood with parts of the dress ensconcing nearly every part of her, save where they belonged.

"You do know that your dress is two parts, right?" Altaïr offered, his voice hardly managing to keep the amusement out of his tone.

"ARE YOU LOOKING?!" Her form whipped around to where her head could only be assumed to be– the dress covered anything that could distinguish front from back.

_Her feet– why not look there instead of elsewhere, Altaïr. That would take all the fun out of it, wouldn't it?..._

Silently, with practiced footsteps, he walked behind her, untangling her from the suffocating cloth. From within, a strangled growl resounded, causing Altaïr to pause with genuine fear.

_Perhaps aiding her wasn't the best of ideas…_

* * *

_Is he… touching me?! _

_Breathe_

_Breathe_

_Kindness Maria– perhaps now would be a good time to show him some?_

_I don't want to– why on earth does he deserve it– after what he has just done!_

_…_

_Perhaps that's just it– he'll expect me to snap, and what will that accomplish. Assuming his intentions were just, I would appear to be nothing more than a pretentious, over-reacting bitch. _

_He won't know what to think._

* * *

Altaïr stood, resisting the urge to back away from her slowly. Since he had attempted to help her, she had frozen, and rested deathly still. As each second elapsed the discomfort increased, and Altaïr wished she would at least yell at him– say something other than make him guess what would happen.

"Aren't you going to finish?"

"…What?" he managed, barely above a murmur.

"I was joking before about being hit in the head– but I don't know if it can count as a joke anymore…"

"You're speaking from inside a dress– you must speak louder."

"_You_ must finish what you started– don't leave me all tied up like some ridiculous package."

"Then hold still."


	5. Touch

**Hey all!**

**Sorry the last chapter sorta sucked...**

**a lot**

**But thanks to your reviews, and my being an attention whore, I've found new inspiration, and vow to finish this!**

**-cheers**

**Read, review, repeat!**

**Ubisoft owns**

**Stay lovely, **

**juno57**

* * *

Altaïr's fingers were steadier than he expected them to be, given the circumstances. Maria had stripped down to her under wrappings, as she had anticipated changing to hardly be strenuous, and could therefore be done herself. Try as he might, his digits defied him, proving to have a mind of their own; occasionally they grazed over an exposed patch of skin, with the excuse of trying to offer assistance.

Beneath his feathered touches, Maria resisted her urge to shiver. At the first occurrence, she had passed it off for happenstance; the second time, clumsiness. After a third, lingering brush, she raised an eyebrow to herself, and wondered if she should perhaps be concerned for herself, or for him.

_Either way, someone is going to get into trouble._

She slowly turned around to face him; the tiny, smug grin that was pulling his lips vanished, replaced by a forced expression, which failed to hide his equal pleasure and apparent discomfort. "Are you in fact helping me? Or are you just molesting me under the pretence of aid?"

Altaïr mumbled something about speaking too fast.

Maria huffed; trying to see his failing as more humorous than annoying. "Then perhaps I should learn your language– you appear ignorant to mine."

His brow raised, "And yet it is you who cannot say any but one word in my tongue. How is it that I become ignorant?"

"You _are_ ignorant– and I do believe you are pushing the boundaries with how you've been exploring me."

Altaïr stammered, "I… pardon?"

She gave him a playful smile, and tilted her hips to the side, thrusting her curves out under his fingers, "You know perfectly well what you're doing– there's no use in playing dumb."

He held her gaze, trying to figure out the sudden shift in her attitude, debating between sliding his fingers over the tempting curve of her hip, or to pull them to his side.

"I should think you of all people would be hesitant at any contact with a woman who isn't your _chattel. _ And your mistress above all." She waited, watching his face intently, trying to decide herself just how far under she would allow herself to drift. Shifting her focus from his eyes to his mouth, she pulled the corner of her lip under, pinching it slightly with her teeth.

_How much would his scar have hurt… would he growl if I were to bite it…_

* * *

"I… I am sorry if I disturbed you." He sighed heavily, closing his eyes to allow himself the luxury of not worrying as to where to look. "Do you wish I leave, or do you need help?" A soft grasp on his jaw prompted him to open his eyes, slightly shocked by her tenderness.

_What hell is this woman planning?_

"If you want to touch," her heartbeat pounded through her veins, "then you only need ask."

Altaïr tried to back away, but she held him by his jaw, tugging down slightly. Though the nature of her grasp was intimate, her hold on him warned of dangerous strength beneath the gesture. She followed the motion of his Adam's apple as he swallowed in discomfort. "Why would I want such a thing?"

She smirked, "Perhaps you don't know it, but your fingers seem to." She grasped one of them, pulling it from where it rested near her breast.

He lowered his gaze, not yet fully trying to separate himself from her hold, "I already apologized– release me."

"And what if I ordered you to touch me?"

His eyes widened, "Me? An Assassin? One who you insist upon calling base and unfeeling– you would want me to…"

"I said touch, habibi– not fuck me." He raised an eyebrow at her diction, "I see _that_ word you understand." She laughed.

"I have heard it before– although not from the lips of a woman."

"I'm sure you think me other than a woman." She huffed, "I do fight as a man– it is the only way I could find a teacher."

Altaïr felt her grip loosen, and he straightened up to his proper height, "And what happened?"

She shrugged, "He found out eventually, and I was sent home, tail betwixt my legs. I managed to learn quite a bit before I left– keep that in mind Alt– _Assassin_." She turned her back to him again, hiding her shame at her tongue's slip.

Altaïr allowed himself a smirk at her expense, his pulse still quickened from her suggestion, and every possible consequence it could have had.

_I can do nothing to risk another injury– mine have only started to heal. _

"Are you just going to stand there, or what?" she quipped, the usual tone of disapproval slipping into her voice.

"If you wish me to, I shall continue."

"Just keep your hands to yourself this time."

"Of course."

* * *

Maria paced across the room to her polished bronze mirror, gazing into it with a small frown.

_A pool of muddy water would work better than this. Whenever will father consent to purchasing a higher grade of metal?_

She turned around, looking at Altaïr, who reclined in a chair, head down. "Am I keeping you awake?"

His head snapped up, and she nearly grinned at the sheepish look on his face before

he banished it with one of boredom.

_No… I wouldn't quite call that boredom. Although I suppose a bored man might stare at my chest like that._

She cleared her throat, eyebrow raised in an inquisitive look, "Habibi, how does this look– my mirror fails to show me anything but its own poor craftsmanship."

Altaïr stood, and approached her slowly; eyes trailed over her body appraisingly, His lips parted, finally, "You… bring the colour alive."

"That's a new one." She blinked, watching his hips as he walked over, "Is the colour too dark? I never liked anything like this– much too hot in the sun."

"Wear it when you are inside. Not for walking around the souk."

Her pulse faltered at the way his voice purred over his native word, "And why ever not? What good is this bloody thing if I can't even wear it? I don't lounge around the house all day."

"Perhaps keep it for your husband."

She narrowed her eyes, "What exactly is this? Should I be hiding it in with my stockings?" Her hands traced over the outfit, pleased with the feel of the material, but confused as to its cut. "If you refuse me answers, I shall return it. I don't think it fits properly anyway–" her hands cupped her breasts, stressing her point. A strangled noise escaped Altaïr's throat, and he dropped his gaze to his boots. Maria covered her guffaw with a hand, forgetting that she was not alone.

_Oh bollocks– look at his face! It is not my fault– I've only ever had help dressing from other women. _

"Ahh… what do you think? You apparently seem to know everything about this… costume. Is it supposed to fit like this?"

Altaïr glanced at her quickly, and gave her a quick nod, "Fine."

Her brow creased, "Fine? What no comment about the colour or, perhaps maybe, a reason for why on earth I feel like a spectacle in it?"

Altaïr sighed, still refusing to look at her directly, "It is an eastern style of a Raks Beledi dress."

* * *

"What?"

Altaïr smirked, "Now it is you who requires repetition." Maria scoffed at him, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Altaïr inhaled deeply, trying to resist lingering on her chest emphasized by the ill-fitting strophium.

_Why was it again I thought this a good idea?_

"In your language, Raks Beledi means… 'folk dance', or 'dance of the country'. 1 It is worn for dancing, or entertaining."

"A woman is expected to dance in _this_?" Her fingers pulled at the laces holding her strophium together.

"Please– do not pull on those!" Altaïr grabbed her hand to stop her.

Maria gave him a quizzical look, and dropped her hand, "My apologies. I won't try for it again."

Altaïr sighed as she rolled her eyes, "It is meant for dance, but this kind has been made more… ornamental. Now, perhaps, it is meant only for show."

Maria's voice lowered in a way that sent a shiver through Altaïr, "Then you mean that I would wear this, only for my husband?"

He nodded once.

"And yet," she moved closer, dragging her eyes up from his chest to his honeyed eyes, "I stand before you now– my slave."

Altaïr swallowed roughly, "I shall leave then– I only wished to–"

Maria placed a finger over his lips, "No, the damage is done." Altaïr tensed, not knowing what new twist his mistress would throw at him next, "I suppose you might as well instruct me on this _Raks Belei_ then. If I'm to dress the part, I might as well know–"

"_Beledi. _It is Beledi, not Belei."

She raised a brow at his presumptuousness, "Yes… your Raks _Beledi_."

Altaïr stopped short of a laugh, " I would not know it– I am not a woman, and am not instructed in their dance."

"I'm sure you've seen it before– look, I'm not asking for a routine, just," she paused, stepping closer to him, "some basic moves."

_Out of the pan…_

* * *

Altaïr stood back further from her, not quite believing what his day had turned into. He watched as her hips swayed softly, moving to the rhythm of some unheard drum. Uncharacteristically, he allowed himself to focus entirely on her sinuous movements, feeling his pulse race as her hips tilted and undulated. Her breasts strained against the unyielding material, and like his own, her chest soon began to heave. A light dusky pink burned under her cheeks, and her lips parted; her breath coming in little pants.

The longer he stood, watching, the more he regretted his decision to teach her. Unlike other occasions he had been privy to said dances, others would have been involved, many more dancers, many more patrons. However, the one to one ratio had turned a commonplace event to an intimate show– one that should never, nor should be allowed to happen between the two.

_Assassin and Templar._

_Mistress and Slave._

_This needs to stop. _

"Mari– uh… Habibit, this needs… you must be tired, why not sleep?"

Maria looked at him quizzically, a slight laugh in her tone, "Have I dishonored your culture or something?" she huffed at his lack of explanation, "And here I thought I was doing well…"

He shook his head, "No, your dance was pleasing, it is only the hour is late, and you should sleep now."

"I'd say you're trying to get rid of me." She placed her hands on her hips staring coyly at him. Her eyes drifted south and a smirk tugged her lips up, "Or perhaps, there is another reason, _habibi." _She sauntered towards him, eyes never leaving his.

Altaïr's breath seemed lost to him, and he was reduced once again to merely staring back at her.

_Why can't I move? Just leave– get out of her damn room. Do you honestly expect her to follow through with her suggestions?_

_Perhaps only to see the beating I would earn. _

_Is it even worth it?_

Her hand slid down his chest, head tilting to the side approvingly.

_If I do not return as soon as I am able, Al Mualim will surely double whatever punishment this would have garnered. _

Flicking her tongue out to wet her lips, she continued slowly dragging her hand down, slowing slightly as she neared his hips.

_But then, how would Al Mualim know one day of recovery from unnecessary injuries. I did not give him an estimate for when I would come–_

A throaty growl reverberated in Altaïr's throat as his mistress' hand found what she had been searching for. He heard a silvery laugh from her, but dared not look down, lest she suddenly change her mind, and leave him panting for her.

_P…perhaps thi...s is only a new tah–AHH– tactic._

His breath started coming in rasps. Somehow, his arms had found her body; his finger dug into her shoulders, steadying himself from her motions.

_Another… form ooooh– of t…torture. _

Maria leaned forward, pressing herself against his chest, inhaling deeply. Altaïr's breath caught suddenly, and his frame twitched involuntarily when he felt her breasts flush against him. Unsure of how he should be interacting with her boldness, all argument vanished as her hips came to rest with a teeth-clenching wriggle over his. Her languorous deep breaths, and the subsequent movement of her hips, he felt himself quickly loosing the ability to control his body.

Maria's soft, murmured laugh resonated through both of them, and she moved her hand back down along his prominent hipbones, slipping a finger under the waistband of his leggings.

Altaïr's eyes opened, and, in no way kindly, did he push her from him.

"Well, then…" Maria started, her mouth left open as Altaïr cut her off.

"Khara– You must not do this– it is wrong. Not only for me– what would happen should your father–"

Maria scoffed, "I am the one in charge of you– whatever I order you to do, is my will, and mine to judge." Her tone softened, "Besides, my father will not return for several hours. Now then, _Assassin_, perhaps you should be the judge on how my dancing has improved. "

Maria sauntered over to her window, leaned out, and firmly closed the shutters in one fluid motion. In the darkened room, she turned back towards Altaïr, who remained standing, watching her. The candlelight glinted in his eyes; in the low light, his golden irises looked only inky black, as his pupils had opened fully, rimmed with the slightest bit of amber.

"Sit."

The simple command hung in the air, and Altaïr obeyed, not content to be treated like some dog, but unable to defy his mistress in her current state.

Maria reached an arm back to where her thick braid rested between her shoulder blades. As she released her dark curls from their confine, she gazed at Altaïr intently, slowly tilting her head back to shake out the braid's hold on her hair. Her pale neck seemed especially highlighted from the nearby candle, and he watched her with rapture. She had not lifted her head back up when she felt his slender fingers ghost over the cords of her neck.

Her eyes slid open, "I thought I told you to sit."

His tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip slightly, "Does your earlier order still stand?"

'What's with the change of heart?"

_An excellent question. _

He lowered his mouth to her ear, the timbre of his voice a deep rumble, "Moomkin almiss bizazeek?"

Maria grabbed onto his shoulder, attempting to hold herself stable while appearing merely amused.

Altaïr traced up her neck with his nose, inhaling deeply when he reached her hair. "Did I do wrong? Your grip is tight."

"… wha– what did you say… before?"

Unable to resist a simper, his lips pulled up, revealing his teeth, "Not so easily will you learn." His free hand slid down to where her breast swelled from the tight strophium, "…That requires," he slid one finger over and down it, "practice."

Maria bit her lip to prevent the moan building in her throat to be released. She could feel his gaze cast over her face, watching as her features changed on account of his ministrations. She leaned forward, hoping he would get the message of her need to kiss him, to feel his lips against her own. She parted them slightly, but kept her eyes closed– not wanting to open them. –waiting instead, for the sweet satisfaction in the uncertainty as to when it would occur.

It never came. Instead, she opened her eyes to see him slowly blink, watching her, slightly amused at her own lack of said feeling. "Do you not understand what it is that's happening? Do they not teach you Assas–" her question was cut short when he pulled her head back, fingers full of her black curls.

"You said yourself, only touch– nothing else."

"You can touch with your mouth…" she whined.

"You would like me to, wouldn't you?" He lowered his head back down to rest near her shoulder, listening to her soft pants in his ear, he whispered to her again, "Aiza ta'mili hagat wiskha ma'aya?"

"…Please- I can't unde–" she moaned as his fingers trailed under her skirt's hemline.

"Then we are at last, equals." With a smirk, he watched her eyes flutter, and her lips part as his fingers brushed over her inner thigh.

* * *

**A/N**

**1**** Taken from . , great reference for belly dancing culture and facts about it. **

**Khara– shit**

**As for the other Arabic– interpret it as you'd like. Personally, it sounds… cheesy if you know what it means– obviously, if you speak Arabic, then kudos– you know what it means. I wish I could speak Arabic. ****_But_**** if not, interpret it as Maria would– it works better when you don't know truly what he is saying. **

**Make it up!**

**Sigh…. Although, if you REEEEAAALLLY want to know, then PM me, and I'll tell you. **

**But honestly**

**...don't. **

**K thanks bai**


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